


Adam Fucking Bracha

by derryere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 3, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryere/pseuds/derryere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade remembers Adam (fucking) Bracha</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adam Fucking Bracha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariadnes_string](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/gifts).



> And here we are, last of the last! I hope you enjoy this one :) I had a blast writing for you, and getting to relate to these characters in ways that I hadn't before. Also, the Lestrade love? YES. THANK YOU. The biggest gift I got this month I think. My eyes have been opened and yes, yes. Happy purim, m'friend!

Adam, Lestrade thought, the first time he saw Sherlock. Adam fucking Bracha, his sister’s first boyfriend from age fourteen to eighteen—dark curls and blue eyes and a smile that spread so wide over his face you couldn’t bloody believe the amount of teeth that went into making that happen. Adam fucking Bracha, coming over for Shabbat and having the balls to ask his mother where she kept the candles—We don’t do that, darling, she’d said, and he had raised his brows like at fifteen he was the lord and savior here to judge their choice in life. He had long fingers that curled neatly around his fork at dinner, spoke quipped English scattered with the odd Yiddish, wanted to go into law and Lestrade _hated_ him—loved to hate him, too, loved it enough to rut against his mattress at thirteen, frustrated and breathing hot into his pillow, thinking, Adam _fucking_ Bracha, and, Adam _fucking_ ,and—with a muffled noise, a hand down his pants, _Adam._

He ran into him once, years later, he was twenty-one at the time—at university, having just lost his virginity a month earlier this guy they all called Jimmy, even though his name was Vernon, a long-legged sight with a side parting and a coy smile. He’d thought he was the shit at that time, he’d just invented the best thing ever, _sex_ , his teachers seemed to like him alright and someone told him he’d look good holding a guitar—he would never again love himself as much as he did those days. Adam was apparently visiting campus, a friend who read something or the other, and his reaction on glimpsing Lestrade in a dimly lit hallway was to pause—laugh, grab his arm and say,

“Lizzie’s twerp! Look at you!”

Lestrade, taken aback but—in the middle of a good day of a good year—grinned through the displacement of seeing him there, a flirty, impossibly cocky grin, and answered, “Yeah. Look at me.” Adding, as an afterthought, “Adam Fucking Bracha.”

Adam laughed, again, shaking his head—still holding on to his arm, squeezing. “You used to _hate_ me, kid. I mean, really. The way you glared at me. Wow. _Wow._ ”

“Wasn’t hate, really,” he’d replied, thinking himself smooth. Maybe he was. Maybe Adam was just a bit of a dick and didn’t mind as long as it meant they were talking about him, because it worked, it worked when he asked him for a drink—worked when they met up for one later, worked all the way into the crammed little dorm room that smelled like the 40s and teenage boys—like the books and old shirts on the floor, like the sloppy blowjob he had given, on his knees, listening to Adam’s continental accent thicken the closer he got, his _Oh_ s slipping into _Ach __s._

He doesn’t reflect on that time an awful lot—doesn’t like how it makes him think of Elizabeth, with her superior ideas of what his lovelife should be—but finds himself reminded of it again, one morning, thinking Sherlock is asleep in the bed next to him. Thinking he won’t notice as he props his head on a hand, stares at the curls, at the back of a head—reaches out to run his fingers over the nape, the sleep-warmth of his hair.

Sherlock’s clear voice startles him.

“You hated me at first,” he declares, not so much to him, more to the world at large.

Lestrade thins his lips around a smile, or a beginning of a smile. He palms Sherlock’s neck. “No,” he says, his thumb running over the soft skin. “Not really.”

  



End file.
